720 DAYS IN PRISON, HE RETURNED INVINCIBLE

Chapter seven: St. Augustus private i

Upper floor of the private hospital, at the premium care unit where many people couldn't afford because survival and comfort there cost more than most rich people expensive cars, Mrs. Whitmore heels clacked frantically on the marble, her appearance disheveled— suit pressed smooth that morning for business arranged business meetings that suddenly changed hospital visit had wrinkled, dust clung to her knee, a reminder of her encounter with Killian that morning.

Security guards flanked the corridors.

She stopped pacing, looked through the door with palm pressed against the transparent glass door. Inside, doctors moved around a bed where a young girl lay unconscious, seemingly dead surrounded by machines that swallowed her small frame, doing their damn best to recover her with every method they'd used before.

"Oh, god—" Mrs. Whitmore gasped, palm pressed on her mouth. Tears spilled down gently seeing her daughter's in bad shape. "— wake up baby. Please."

She yanked Dr. Marcus William's collar immediately he stepped out of the ward, shaking it frantically.

"How is my baby? How is my girl?" Her voice cracked.

Dr. Marcus Williams let out a shaky breath, his eyes tired from reading monitor that was static, sweats glistened over his temple and for the first time walking out of a ward in twenty years in the medical field, he looked genuinely confused.

He was known as the second best medical expert in the world because of his breakthrough and experience in the field but at the moment he wasn't looking like any of those qualifications.

"Mrs. Sandra," His voice was low, lacking confidence that made Mrs. Whitmore's grip loosened on his collar. He delivered failure with a careful approach that shouldn't hurt reputation and disappoint employer. "Her illness is strange. I have never seen anything like that in over twenty years in my career."

He paused, exhaustion palpable.

"Every test comes back with no results on papers. No diagnosis. No primary or secondary causes. It seems we're dealing with nothing here, Mrs. Whitmore."

Sigh.

"We're still doing everything to make sure she's..."

"After ten hours?" Mrs. Whitmore's heart fell. She could read the failure carefully wrapped in hope. "Please..do something.... nothing should happen to my daughter. I'll pay you more. Any amount. Just make her well."

The doctor released a shaky exhale.

"This is not about money, Mrs. Whitmore.." He said, frustration hinting in his voice.

"Honey—' Mr. Whitmore walked in, a business man and certified lawyer. His footsteps were quick with the urgency of a man rushing down from an important business meeting.

"— how is she?" He glanced at the doctor before looking back to the wife whose expression already said everything.

Mrs. Whitmore's emotion completely collapsed, sobbing through tears. Her husband pulled her to his chest gently.

"She's not fine. She's not okay.. please do something honey." Her cried, her shoulder shuddering.

"She'll be fine, Darling. She'll be fine." He gently rubbed her back gently in comfort that wouldn't smoothen despair when you have a daughter dying with a cause.

The moment was suddenly interrupted when Margaret walked in, Mrs. Whitmore's assistant. A tablet swung in her hand like a weapon. Her heels clacked the marble with stride that made curiosity inevitable and urgency unquestionable.

"Boss.." She called. Mrs. Whitmore turned through tears with hope rather than curiosity. "....you need to see something."

She handed the tablet to her.

"A man came asking for you at the reception. The receptionist already sent him off with security before I got there. Could he be the important person you asked me to bring up?"

"Where is the man?" Mrs. Whitmore's commanding voice snapped back. The screen glowed on her face, watching the recorded real-time footage of the earlier scene at the lobby.

"Oh, God!" Mrs.Whitmore gasped in shock, voice trembling in panic seeing securities challenged Killian in the lobby. She flung the tablet back to assistant careless about where it hits, crossing out the corridor with the pace of a soldier hurrying towards war.

"This is going to be messy."

Margaret muttered matching her pace.